In A World Gone To Hell
by justmica
Summary: While at an Outpost for supplies, John Logan comes across Infected being forced to fight each other for entertainment. He puts a stop to it and rescues a Hunter, injured in one of the fights. In a world gone to hell, what else would a decent person do?
1. Better than the rest

**Chapter One**

**Better than the rest**

John Logan was a gentle, peace loving man, although you may not guess it just by looking at him. At first glance, you would probably guess his profession as being a professional wrestler or high profile bodyguard. Maybe even a club bouncer. It was just the way he _looked_. In any given crowd, he usually stood taller than anyone else by at least two heads, and his body was heavy set with the girth of several men. He was like a walking boulder. Albeit a walking boulder with two arms that could crush a normal man in two. He was all muscle after all and it showed. His build alone was intimidating enough that he could probably walk through the shadiest part of any city in the world with a giant string of diamonds around his neck and even the most desperate thief would not even consider trying to rob him.

He just had that sort of effect on people. It either made them stop and stare, or cast their gazes to the ground and hurry past, praying to whatever God they had that he did not come their way.

But what most people found even more disturbing than his impressive bulk were his eyes. Pale, crystal blue and so piercing it seemed like he could look into a person's soul. He would have been a good priest in that respect. But despite being a God-fearing man, John had little interest in organized religion. He had his Bible and he had his faith and that was about all he really needed or wanted. It wasn't like organized religion had survived the apocalypse anyway. Or at least if it had, any telltale sign of it was being readily hidden away. Maybe that was why so much was going wrong. Maybe that was the reason behind the incident at the Outpost that started everything.

John heard the laughter and chatter of excited voices first. It was an unusual sound for such a dreary atmosphere, even as muffled as it was. It was also a sound that sent his nerves on edge, and as he had learned countless times before in the past, he could trust his nerves to tell him when something was wrong. Usually something he could take care of, one way or another. So he finished loading up the last of the supplies he was supposed to take back to the Compound, asked one of the Outpost soldiers to watch his truck for him while he was gone, and went to investigate the source of the noise.

He found it at the very edge of the small Outpost in a hastily built garage-sized shack surrounded by several milling men smoking cigarettes and chatting leisurely. John suspected they were guards of some sort from the way they held themselves and how they looked around coolly as he approached, only to recoil in fear and take a few steps back upon seeing the giant lumbering towards them. A few of them even thought for a moment that a Tank had broken through the heavily fortified perimeter, and without a second glance, they immediately fled to the main complex in the center of the Outpost without a glance back. They would most likely have nightmares for a week. Some stood their ground though. You had to hand it to them. John really did look like one of those giant hulking Infected if you didn't take a moment to look closely enough.

Smiling apologetically, he lumbered up to one of the remaining guards, keeping his body language and posture laid back and open so as not to come off further as a threat. He would prefer to talk first, and it was difficult to talk to retreating backs.

"Good afternoon," he said, and his deep, bass voice seemed to vibrate in the men's very bones. "Would you fine gentlemen do me the favor of telling me what's going on in this building? It sounds quite entertaining."

The men glanced at each other, rather taken aback about this unexpected politeness from this giant and thus uncertain as to how to respond. John turned his gaze on each of them in turn until a squat man with a small patch of red hair and a scowling face eventually spoke up, his rough, cracked voice trembling slightly with nerves, his eyes wide and round and flickering.

"Fight," he muttered, scratching a scab on his wrist anxiously. His voice was raspy and high pitched, whether because it was normally like that or he was just plain scared, John was unsure.

"Oh? May I inquire on the nature of the fight?"

The smaller man glanced at his comrades, as if seriously regretting speaking up and hoping one of them would step up and take over. When none did, he swallowed painfully. "Betting fight. Y'know, pass the time."

"Indeed, quite understandable. And who are the lucky souls who are fighting?" asked John placidly, although his curiosity rose a notch upon seeing the nervousness in the men's eyes at the question. He knew that look. They were hiding something.

The squat man seemed to be struggling with his words. John smiled broadly and bent over to pat him on the shoulder, nearly knocking him over. "Never mind, I'll find out for myself, eh? Unless you gentlemen have any objection?"

They all shook their heads immediately. Nope. No objection here. Just as long as the giant man left them all in on piece, he could do whatever the hell he wanted.

Still smiling, John turned his back on them and strode up to the side access door of the garage sized shack set to face away from the rest of the Outpost. Certainly curious. And now that he was this close, he could also detect the sounds of something different mixed in with the raucous laughter and calls. Growling. Snarling. Like animals.

And then a shriek sounded that cut through to his very core. A shriek that was so deadly familiar to a man who had lived for almost a month in one of the most heavily hit cities in the country, overrun by the suffering victims of the deadly plague that had choked off life in most of North America. He _knew_ what made that shriek. He had only learned their standard CEDA name recently, and it was that name that flashed across his thoughts, filling the suddenly blank, focused screen of his inner eyes.

Hunter.

It seemed to be coming from inside the building. His body braced himself instinctively as he gripped the cold metal of the door handle, his system readying itself for the possibility of a fight for his life the moment he opened the door, fists clenched and eyes narrowed. But before he could do so, he heard a second agonized, terrified shriek that was abruptly cut short, and then the loud roar of a pleased crowd that made him relax. A bit. No attack then. No need to go charging in to try to save lives like he had had to do countless times in the city. Still though, it was worrying. People did not laugh and cheer when a Hunter was ripping them apart.

John shouldered open the door enough to permit his large bulk and slid into the shadows of the rather large and open room. After a few moments, his eyes adjusted to the darkness around him, focusing on the center of the building where a pale light hung from the ceiling, illuminating a large group of men huddled together around a small open space directly in the middle. Then men were cheering and jeering, like rowdy fans at a sports arena. John blinked through the dimness and squinted around at the outer area to see several cages lining the far wall, each containing nearly indiscernible forms. Yet despite the darkness, he could tell that they were humanoid. Not animals.

He had a feeling there were no animals here.

He had a vague idea what was going on here now. And he certainly did not approve of it.

A knot twisting painfully in his chest, he moved forward towards the large group of men, but before he even took a few steps, he was able to see over their heads and into the center ring, built up from cattle gates and wooden boards and secured with chains and chain link fence, at the horror that lay within, confirming his suspicions and his fears.

He had just come in on the beginning of a fight. But it was not a fight between men. _Real_ men. It was not even a fight between animals. It was a fight between Infected. And these men were betting on the outcome, like spectators at a wrestling match.

No, not a wrestling match. John did not have to get any further information to know that these Infected were being forced to do this. This was not like a wrestling match. It was more like dog fighting. Except more brutal. More disturbing.

One of the men in front of John slapped a nearby friend on the back. "Ten says the large one squashes the runt."

"No dice, mate," replied the other man with a laugh. "I ain't that stupid."

John frowned and peered over them into the ring. There were two Hunters being released from cages in opposite sides into the blood stained concrete arena. For a moment, they crouched at their respective sides, blinking painfully in the bright light, confused by so much noise. There was one large one who probably could have given most of the men watching him a run for their money in terms of height and build, and one smaller one who may have been a teenager. The small one was doused in what looked like blood. John had a thought it might not be his own, or even Infected blood.

That was all the large man really had time to take notice of. Within seconds, the bigger Infected realized that the smaller one was in the ring with him, covered in blood that quickly filled his senses, blinding him with rage and bloodlust. Immediately, he bristled for just a moment before he lunged, biting and clawing in a furious, frenzied rage. The smaller Hunter shrieked and immediately lashed out in defense. Within moments, the two had become a sudden flurry of flailing limbs and gnashing teeth. Clothing and flesh ripped easily beneath their maddened claws, sending blood in flecks and splatters onto the hard dusty ground.

The smaller Hunter was nearly overpowered within minutes. He was forced to abandon his all out defensive attack and instead dropped to his back, letting the larger one lunge forward on top of him while at the same time he brought his legs up, catching the other Infected in the chest and using the momentum of the charge to send him head over heels into the other side of the pen. In a flash, the smaller Hunter jumped to his feet and flung himself away against the caging on the opposite side, snarling viciously at his opponent who took several moments to recover, only to charge forward uncontrollably once he got his bearings, bloodied claws flashing.

And all the while, the men around the ring cheered them on.

John looked around at them in disgust. And sadness.

It was cruel. Inhumane. Sickening. These people were no better than the creatures they so loathed…no, they were even worse. The Infected had no idea what they were doing. Their brains were too damaged to realize the morality of their actions. But these people…they should know better. Had the apocalypse driven out all vestiges of humanity from non-Infected people as well as the Infected?

He had to put a stop to this.

John glanced around quickly, assessing the situation. There were men right up next to the gating all around the perimeter holding various weapons and monitoring the situation closely. On the top of the ring ran thick barbed wire. Well, at least they were not taking too many chances. Still though, surely they knew how high these Hunters could leap. Perhaps they were merely relying on the fact that each Hunter was too preoccupied with the other, that the smell of fresh blood would suffice in keeping them focused on where they needed to be focused.

There was a loud shriek and John turned in time to see that the smaller Hunter was using his advantage of being smaller and thus more agile. He was darting around the ring, lashing out at his opponent whenever there was an opening. The larger was becoming more frustrated, more blinded by his inability to land a blow on the smaller. The wounds began to build up. Blood began pouring freely onto the concrete, stained red with the dozen fights that had taken place on its surface.

John diverted his attention away once again. He needed to decide on a course of action. Quickly. Before this fight finished. He had no idea if there would be another fight after this one, so he needed to take advantage of the fact that the crowd's attention was currently being diverted. He could always wait until the fights were done for the day and everyone had left, but he needed to make an impression. He needed to ensure that this would not happen again, or at the very least, that these people would not be involved in something like this again.

The fight in the ring was drawing to a close now and despite all the odds, the smaller Hunter was winning. His opponent simply could not keep up, whether because he was too exhausted, too injured, or just too slow. As John watched, the small Hunter at last managed to break through the other's defenses, lips pulled back, teeth bared. He lunged forward, his bloody mouth closing over the thin area of exposed flesh on the neck of his opponent above the thick hooded collar of the filthy sweatshirt he wore. There was a tremendous holler from the men as they cheered their own bloodlust, and then with a jerk of the Hunter's head and a flailing, strangled shriek that no one could hear over the human din, it was over.

The defeated opponent collapsed in a heap, lying in a rapidly growing pool of fresh crimson.

John heaved a deep, calming breath. Well, it was now or never then. Striding over to the wall where he had noticed a set of switches, he swept one giant hand across the board catching each one and flipping them on. The room was immediately doused in bright, blaring lights that sent the creatures in the cages growling and snarling and whining and the men standing around the ring shouting and yelling in annoyed, confused panic. Blinking through the glaring light, John turned to them, wiped his hands on his trousers, raised his fingers to his mouth, and blew.

The resulting whistle was so loud, so piercing, that it overwhelmed the current tumult of sound and shut it off within moments. John drew it out for several seconds, ensuring that it caught the attention of everyone in the dim, dingy building. When he was certain every eye was on him, he drew himself up to his full height and glared around imperiously.

It seemed like every breath in the building was caught.

Good lord, this man was _huge_.

"This ends now," he said, his deep voice rumbling threateningly like a summer thunderstorm. The silenced men glanced at each other, asking with their stunned, fearful expressions whether or not they should try to take on the large, intimidating stranger. Certainly he was outnumbered, but then, whoever went first into the offensive would most likely regret it if he was as mean as he looked.

As if to decide for them, the giant cracked his knuckles threateningly and the group took a synchronized step backwards, any thoughts of resistance dying then and there.

"I suggest you leave if you know what's good for you."

Some did leave. Immediately. Regretting with every fiber of their body the fact that they had ever been there in the first place. The others seemed too stunned to do much else except stare, many with their mouths hanging open slightly.

Satisfied, John strode forward through the small crowd that parted easily before his path. Many decided that they had other places to be after they had snapped out of their respective funks and quickly vacated before anything further happened. He shoved aside the metal gating at its weakest points, one of the apparent entrances for the men handling or cleaning the inside ring, causing most of the rest of the crude structure to fall over rather limply, sending the men still around it scattering. Then he stepped into the blood soaked ring and bent over the prone form of the larger Hunter. It took less than a minute for him to confirm that the Infected was dead, succumbed to the immense loss of blood from his bitten jugular.

_I am sorry I could not have saved you,_ thought the large man sorrowfully. _I am sorry that you had to die this way._

Slowly, he straightened and focused his attention instead on the other Hunter, crouched in the far side of the ring against a small stretch of gating that had not quite fallen. It was one of the two closed entrances into a cramped holding cages, no doubt his own. Probably the only place he felt safe now. Or maybe the men had somehow trained him to retreat to the caging when the fight was finished. It made John wonder pityingly how many times the poor creature had been forced into the ring, although by the looks of it, this time probably would have been one of the last.

The Infected's body was shuddering controllably with the effort of staying conscious. Blood was pouring from the many gashes and wounds littering his torn, tattered form. Strips of blood soaked clothing, ripped beyond repair, hung around his shuddering body like matted hair, like entrails. Colorless, bloodshot eyes watched John narrowly as he cautiously approached, his hands held out, palms up. Cracked lips drew back to reveal blood stained teeth in a warning snarl as the creature tried to move further away. But there was nowhere to go, and the energy used by the movement caused him to collapse in a bloody heap, whimpering in surprise and frustration and fear. However, his reaction interested John. In all his dealings with the Infected, they had never tried to back away from a threat. Their lack of self-preservation was one of their deadlier traits. It was almost encouraging to see that this was not the case with this particular Hunter, even after everything he had been put through. And was that a flicker of fear in his expression?

John crouched down at the Infected's side, keeping his face as calm and as soft as he could while he spoke in a low, reassuring voice. "I am not going to hurt you. I am here to help. You are very badly injured and you will need care. Just take it easy."

He was unsure of the Infected had enough of a mind left to understand his words, but the words were not what mattered. It was the way he spoke. The calming, steady voice coupled with the non-threatening posture and slow movements. This was all about gaining trust.

It seemed to work. Or perhaps the Infected was just too exhausted and injured. Either way, the damaged creature stared at John rather balefully for a few moments more while he talked, and then he turned his bloodied face away, his shoulders sagging.

John waited a moment, then crept slowly towards the prone figure, gently reaching out to brush his large fingers down the spine beneath the tattered and stained clothing. The creature shuddered slightly, but made no move to attack or respond. Encouraged, the man carefully grabbed the far shoulder, rolling the creature onto his back when nothing happened in response to that touch.

The Infected's eyes were closed and his body was limp. For a moment, John was afraid that he had yielded to his wounds like the other Hunter, but then he noticed that the creature was still drawing shallow, ragged breaths. Still alive then. Just unconscious. The large man's eyes quickly glanced over the bloodied form, noting each open, oozing injury with grim analysis. Then something caught his eye.

There was something around the Hunter's neck, hidden slightly by the dark blood surrounding it and the bunched up neck of the hooded sweater he was wearing. Curious, John gently pulled away the clothing to get a better view, only to scowl bitterly. It was a collar. A shock collar, if he wasn't mistaken. So that was how the men had controlled the Infected.

His temple throbbing from the effort of controlling his anger, he reached down and quickly unfastened the black band with large fingers much nimbler than they looked. With a casual flick of his wrist, he sent the cursed object flying off to the side where it landed with a dull thud in the dirt.

"I need a blanket."

A tattered, slightly stained, but nonetheless fairly clean blanket came soaring into the ring, landing heavily at his side. He picked it up and wrapped the damaged Infected within it before picking up the small form in his large, powerful arms and turning to the watchful, fearful crowd.

"Release the others back into the nearest city," he instructed the men, his voice cold and leaving no room for argument. "I will know if it is done, and if it isn't…"

He let the empty threat hang in the air. Not that they knew it was empty. But it had the desired effect. The remaining group nodded furiously, and he knew that his request would be carried out immediately.

"Well? There is certainly no better time than the present."

There was a mad scramble as the surrounding men immediately went to work, either to converge on the cages of the remaining Infected or to go out and get their vehicles. The caged creatures would soon find themselves cage-less and collar-free in less than two hours, wandering the near empty city a safe distance away from the hell they had endured for varying amounts of time. Most of them returned to their former Infected ways without further ado. Some were not so lucky.

But John would never know. All he knew was that he had a load of supplies to drive back to the Compound and now he had a creature that was in desperate need of help. Taking advantage of the chaos in the building, he quietly slipped out the door and returned to his truck.

It was growing dark now as night rapidly approached. He quickly returned to where his truck was parked, simply smiling at the startled questionings of the soldier he had left to care for it. He thanked the young man for his help and gave him one of the packs of cigarettes he kept in his cab, despite himself not being a smoking man, and then waited until the soldier had left before hastily unwrapping the Infected he had set onto his open tailgate, using the light emitting from the supply building next to him to examine the injuries scattering the damaged body.

Now that he had a better change to look, he could see that the Hunter's wounds were not necessarily life-threatening. At any rate, they would not require immediate care and could most likely hold up until he made it back to the Compound. That was a relief. He knew someone of the medical expertise who could help there. Here, he would probably be kicked out of the infirmary and laughed at for wanting to have an Infected taken care of. They would just tell him to let it die. Or they would just kill him right there and ask questions later.

An Infected was an Infected after all.

But they were still human. Or at least they had been. And no one deserved dying like this.

He loaded the beaten, bloodied Hunter into the back of the waiting truck, wrapped him tightly in the blanket, secured him carefully next to the supplies, got into the cab, and drove away.


	2. Fear is learned

**Chapter Two**

**Fear is learned**

Darkness. Cold.

Silence.

It was all there was now. Emptiness. There should be others. But there are not. Most are gone. Each in its own way. Ripped, bitten, torn by others. Tired, starved, hurt, lying down on the streets and no longer moving. Gone. Just gone. Only few left now. Little movement. It has been too long since it started. Since it was before.

Nothing but cold now. Cold and silence.

The Hunter did not like the cold. Or the silence.

In the dark shadows of the towering buildings in the city lit solely by the light of the night sky, the Hunter crouched against brick, on top concrete. Back and forth on worn, rubber soled heels. Grubby, heavy clothes hanging about a small, lithe form like bags of skin. Warm skin. Warm against the cold of the empty night. Good. The nights were getting colder now. The more warmth the better. And there was little other warmth to find here.

Here, in this city of the dead.

The Infection had hit the city in early October. The sprawling mess of steel and concrete had been far enough west that by the time the purported Green Flu hit, most of the population had been tested, vaccinated, and evacuated or in the process thereof.

Most. But not all.

Many stayed. It was just a flu, after all, and the safety precautions from the CEDA would most likely be enough, even if they were a bit extreme. There had been flu scares before, one right after another, season after season, and none had affected the city as much as the news tried to lead them to believe. There were always a few cases, true. A few weeks of shying away from those who coughed or sniffled. A few weeks of wearing flimsy face masks and washing hands more than normal. A few weeks of the season when schools and libraries and community centers were flooded with lines from the early hours of the morning to the late times of the evening. People standing, waiting, trying to procure the desperate shot or spray. The vaccination that promised to save them.

But it never seemed to matter much. A dozen cases here. A few more dozen there. Most not too terrible. Most did not even make it to the news. Eventually, it went away. It always went away. Life went on. There was no reason that would change now.

No reason at all.

But it did change. Everything changed.

That was why it was silent. And cold. In the darkness.

Shivering, restless, the Hunter rocked forward onto clawed hands, roughened and filthy from constant use, from grabbing, landing, walking, ripping. They supported his weight as he leaned forward, gathering his legs up underneath him, pale eyes flickering, nose twitching. Studying. Curious. Something on the air that was not supposed to be there.

Smell. Different smell. Familiar. So, so familiar. Why? He tried to think. Remember. Vague images. Sounds. Thoughts. Movement. Faces staring at him. Mouths turned upwards. Open. Voices speaking.

"…_Infection hit…death…end of the world…hurts…"_

He growled in frustration, head swiveling back and forth as if to see the memories that could not be seen. Bright colors and strange places flashed across his mind, almost to his physical vision. But nothing held still for too long. Nothing made sense. His growl grew louder, deeper. His head hurt, spinning, pounding. Anger rippled through his muscles, down his spine, exploding in his brain. Anger. So much anger. Clawed hands flexed. Muscles tensed. The smell infuriated him.

Anger. Hot, pounding fury.

The smell. Because of the smell.

He had to find the source of the smell. Destroy it. His head was throbbing now. Pounding in his ears. Destroying the silence. He hated the silence. But it was not a pleasant interruption. He hated it more than the silence. Had to find the smell. Claw it away so it would never bother him again. Would not bring up the faces and voices and thoughts. Had to kill. Tear. Bite. Just as he always had before.

Had to.

Shoulders rolled, back bent, crouched. Legs gathered underneath him.

Find. Kill. Destroy the source of the smell. Make it become like all else in the city. Like the others. Like the dead.

Then the confusion would go away. The pounding would stop. The anger would fade as it always did. And it would be silent once more.

* * *

The smell was strong now. And there were sounds. One or two. Like those in his mind. But more real. Louder. More confusing.

More images. Voices. More throbbing pain in his head.

He crawled forward on his belly across the hard, cold edge of the high place he was perched on. His nose turned upward, pale eyes near blind but searching the dim darkness all the same. The smell was strong. But now that he was close, he could tell there were many different smells. All gave him the same reaction. All smelled somewhat the same. But they were just a bit different than the others. Slight. Enough to tell him there were many sources of the smell. Five. At least five. Not that he knew the word. But he knew the meaning.

He wanted to attack. Leap. Pounce. Tear. But no. Five there. Too many for him. Dangerous. Wait…hold back…wait until one smell drew away. Wait until there was a difference in strength. Just one…

His head turned to the side, nose sniffing carefully. No. Not five. Six. One smell somewhat far away. Not as strong. Just what he wanted. Needed. He crept to all fours and sensed the area around him, judging distances between buildings, handholds, grips, with near blind eyes accustomed to the darkness, and silently leapt towards the smell, drawing closer, testing the air until it filled his senses more so than the other five smells. Close now. He slid down from the high place, clawed fingers nimbly gripping a window edge, feet and legs braced against the side of the building. Very close now. He could hear ragged breathing. Hear something rip. Through flesh. A familiar sound. Good. Then the smell…another smell…stronger…

His heart sped up, pounding even louder in his ears, adding to the pressure on his brain. He felt his chest constrict. He knew that smell. Blood. It was a good smell. Sweet. Bitter. It meant good. The anger faded slightly, replaced by something else. An aching. Hunger. He felt his muscles tense, bunching up. Another sound like the ones in his head. Short, quiet. Coming from where the blood was. Where the smell was. His anger flared up once again. Overwhelming. He did not understand why. But it made him furious. More images and voices and thoughts bubbled through into his mind, screaming at him. Disjointed.

"…_run…help…please, help…"_

A growl vibrated in his throat. Muscles went taut. Body pulled back. The smell was right there. The source. He could reach it in one leap. Easy. Then sink his claws into flesh. Rip through. Tear. Kill.

Then the smell would go away eventually. It would become like the others. Then his head would stop hurting. The pain would go away. And he could end his hunger as well. Maybe his cold, too. That would be good. All good.

The Hunter sniffed the air once again, judging the distance, feeling his way in the darkness without moving, looking for the flicker of movement that was all his eyes needed to see.

There. Right there.

His muscles coiled and he leapt, soaring through the hair, clawed hands outstretched, so eager for the kill. A shriek was torn from his throat, the hope of ending the smell the only thought in his pounding brain. The source of the smell heard him coming. Turned. He saw the slight movement. But too late. He slammed into the smell, carrying it to the hard ground. Before even landing, he was digging in, snarling bitterly. The anger wiped away now by savage joy.

"Help!"

The sound made him jerk back, but only for a moment. Bright images and vague words burst in his head. His anger returned. He shrieked at the smell, now so strong. Arm muscles worked at a furious pace. Claws tore through layers and layers. But no blood. No flesh. He snarled in frustration, snatching forward to bite. But still no flesh. Nothing but roughness.

He pulled back, preparing to continue his onslaught regardless of the lack of results, then…pain!

Something slammed into his back, just below his neck. His body seized up suddenly, stunned. He tried to reach out, grab, sink his claws into support, but another blow to his stomach doubled him over. Head turned in time for his dim eyes to see movement. Coming towards him. Fast. Not enough time to leap away. Or turn and defend. A heavy weight slammed into his side, sending him sprawling off his prey. Flying. Air. But uncontrolled. Not like a jump. Landing on concrete. Scraped across.

Voices hissed, snapped. Movement all around him. He tried to get to his feet. Ready for another attack. Muscles numb but mind overriding. Yet he never got the chance. Cruel hands grabbed at him, then another blow. This time to his chest. A heavy weight landing on top of him, driving air from his lungs, like a misjudged jump that sent him into the concrete.

The smell was overpowering now. All six smells. Everywhere. They flooded his senses. The rage within him flared from the confusion, driving aside all other thought or feeling.

Attack!

He tried to bite, but rough hands were holding him, hard fingers digging through into his flesh. His mouth opened wide to shriek. But that was a bad thing to do. A mistake. Something uncomfortable was shoved into his gaping jaw, pulled back harshly around his head, tied, painful. Bitter taste. Dry. On the bloodied skin of his cheeks, it felt like what covered the rest of his body. Touched his skin. Warmed him. But this was in the wrong place. All wrong. Bad. His arms were dragged behind him, something tight wrapped around, holding them back, unable to move. He tried to kick, but his legs were pinned down. Something heavy. Holding him. Keeping him still, even though inside he was exploding, his vocal chords firing off in a constant flurry, muffled by the thing across his mouth, by the lack of air in his lungs.

Sound was everywhere now. Harsh tones, quiet, but loud enough to stand out against the stillness of the city. The sounds confused the Hunter. Angered him. They were familiar. Vaguely so. Like the sounds in his head. But their meaning was unclear. Their emotion was too complex. He did not understand.

Then the hands grabbing him shifted. Pulled up. The weight on his legs lifted. He was being dragged now. Across the hard ground. He tried to twist away, wrench himself from the trapping grasps, but something smashed into his side and he stopped moving for just a few seconds. Just enough time for the hands to get a better grip, propel him forward. Like a jump. Through the air. The grips on him loosened, disappeared. His voice was caught in his throat, raw now from his vocal rage.

Not a jump. No control. No…

They threw him in a space that was too small for comfort. Cold. Hard. It smelled like blood. Only different. Not living. And small. Too small. Much too small. Openings everywhere, but no room to get out. No chance to escape but for the door slammed shut, bound tightly, locked up. Not that he could try. His arms were trapped behind him. His legs would not separate. There was not enough room to move, to sit up, to crouch, no matter how he moved. He twisted his head around furiously, looking about with wild eyes, nostrils flaring, the thing on his mouth soaked from excessive salivating. His body twitched and flailed, struggling to right itself, to crouch and prepare to pounce, attack. Escape from the helpless position. But impossible. Too small. Trapped.

"Ain't too happy, is it?" snickered a coarse voice, standing out so clearly from the hushed snaps of commands. Close. Very close. The Hunter's eyes swiveled to find the source of it, a squat man with long black hair tied back. The man's face was twisted into a cruel expression, mocking.

The Hunter growled through the gag in his mouth, body twisting more furiously in an attempt to get to the unfamiliar face.

"Lotta energy, that's good," said another voice gruffly. "It'll put up well in the ring."

The first man grunted. "Bit of a runt, though, eh? Wonder how long it'll last."

"Well, it survived this long on its own, dininit? 'Sides, least it ain't got any little friends like the others. We'll get one good fight from it at least."

There was a noise like the wind. Loud. Short. Angry. The strange sounds stopped. The faces watching him drew away, replaced by more. Then a ruffling, something black and heavy pulled around his vision, blocking his view in the thin spaces around him. Blinding him.

He shrieked again through the thing in his mouth, angry, frustrated. Threatening. Confused. Darkness everywhere. True darkness. No light at all. He tried to move again. Tried to crouch. Clawed fingers flexing frantically, ripping into his own flesh. But no room. The space was too small. More anger came. His head pounded harder. The images and sounds that his ears could not hear and eyes could not see burst painfully in his mind.

Anger. Fury. But he was trapped. Helpless.

Then the feeling of being moved. The surface he laid on shifted. Angled. He slid roughly across it, unable to brace himself. Crammed up against an uneven wall. Then the surface evened out. Flat. More movement. Scraping sounds. A pause, filled with the strange voices that caused the chaos in his head to flare sharply. Then a loud noise, non-living, overpowering the others. A lurch forward that sent him back against the uneven wall. Movement again.

More anger. More pain in his head.

He growled, but the sound melted into a whine. A whimper. Confused.

"Don't worry, you," said one of the voices from before. Muffled. On the other side of the darkness around him. Cold. Threatening. He bristled, dim eyes searching through black. But there was nothing to see. "You'll get your chance to sink your teeth into something soon enough."

Another growl. He did not like that voice. It confused him even more. It did not matter. He wanted out of this small space. Out of this stifling darkness. Away from the strong smells that drove him mad. That brought pain. Confusion. More anger.

But they were everywhere now. Surrounding him, like the silence and the cold of the city. Like the smell of those who laid on the hard, rough ground and never moved again. Everywhere. And they would never leave him alone again.

* * *

He was being attacked. Bitten at. Clawed. Torn. Snarling bitterly, he danced away from the flailing claws, pale eyes noticing every twitch, every movement of his opponent. Maddened. Angry. Uncontrolled.

The smell of blood was everywhere. Overwhelming. Sticky. He could feel it seep through to touch his skin. Still warm. The one he faced, the one that smelled like him, could smell it, too. That was why it was attacking him. Biting. Clawing. The smell was driving it, hurting it. Overpowering the other smells, the same smells that angered the Hunter so much. Made his head pound, throb. Made the images and voices and sounds burst in his brain.

But no time for that now.

His opponent charged, forcing him back against the heavy metal railing surrounding them. Sharp claws dug into skin, ripped through cloth. The Hunter shrieked and growled in response, swiping blindly. Ripping. His claws tore through something soft. Softer than the rest. Wet. Bursting. It made the other scream in pain and surprise, falling back. Clawing at its own face. Just enough distraction. Enough time.

The Hunter lunged forward, bloodied teeth bared, claws digging into a handhold. He snapped and gnashed his mouth at the neck, the place where the blood of the other pounded, thrived, so easy to get to. Usually.

Something was in the way, though. Stopping him. Just long enough for the other to recover. To try to bite back, to dig its own claws into his back, tearing and shrieking furiously, trying to dislodge the thing clutching him. But the Hunter held on determinedly, snapping in again and again, trying to get past the obstacle blocking him from the kill, blinded by the smell of the blood that covered him, blinded to the fact that the smell of the other was like his own. That this smell did not bring up the images and voices and anger like the other smells.

No time for that now.

The other tried to roll onto all fours, large enough to do so even with the Hunter clinging to its front. It tried to shove him off, push him away, but the Hunter held on with inhuman strength, still biting. Searching. Looking for the opening of flesh. Another roll. More snarling. Biting. Growling. Shrieks. But the Hunter did not let go. Could not. Even as claws ripped into his flesh, even as his own blood poured down his skin, burning hot, wet.

Another bite. More. Another. Just one opening, that was all. Open flesh, that was…

At last, his teeth dug into something that was not hard, not non-living. He jerked his head back immediately, his teeth ripping through, something wet and hot splattering his face, dripping into him, filling his mouth. His opponent tried to shriek, but the Hunter was at its throat once again, biting deeper now, biting harder.

The movement beneath him became more frantic. Weaker. The other flailed once more. Twice. Then stopped. Stilled.

Gone. Like the others in the city.

But he was not in the city any longer.

A loud flurry of voice sounds erupted around him as the other stilled forever. Confused, startled, the Hunter pulled back, teeth bared in a warning snarl as he tried to face the source of the noise. But it was everywhere. All around him. He saw the movement of many, tasted the smell of many on the air. The fury at being attacked faded now. Replaced by confusion. He was surrounded. Out in the open. Still covered in blood.

Blood. Blood was good. And he had killed. That was good, too. He turned his attention back to his kill, the fresh blood and flesh sitting heavily on his tongue.

Then…loud bangs and bright flashing lights erupted around him, stunning him, confusing him. He cringed and stumbled back, unable to see the source in order to attack, too stunned and blinded to understand what was going on. He backed away uncertainly, only to see, somehow, the figures of people standing around him, drawing closer. Movement. Too much movement. Threatening. A growl ripped from his throat, his bloodied teeth bared. Muscles bunched up. Coiled. Preparing to leap…

Pain. Immeasurable pain. The sort that his ravaged mind could not possibly ignore. He screamed and flailed, clawing at the epicenter of the pain, at his neck, at the heavy unfamiliar tightness. But then the pain was gone. Numbness now. Aching. Misery. He collapsed onto the concrete, whimpering, clawing.

"Back in your cage, you!"

A harsh blow to his stomach. Powerful hands grabbing at his back, heaving him up bodily, dragging him across bloodied hard ground, then a heave and he was thrown into near darkness. Cold. Hard. Small. Familiar.

Confused. Pain.

The cage moved, rolled back farther into darkness. Away from the light. Away from the smell of blood, of his kill. Harsh sounds. Cold tones. All around him. Then the movement stopped. The sounds drew away. Left alone.

The Hunter was shuddering. Body shaking violently from pain and cold and confusion. He cowered in a corner of the small space, staring around him blearily at the dim shadows, bloody claws clutching at the immovable pain source strapped around his neck.

Confused. Very confused. And angry.

His head was throbbing again.

A time passed, and then the air was rent with shrieks and growls. Familiar. Like his own sounds that came from his throat. Like the sounds that had come from his opponent. He knew what they meant. He had heard them in the city. Breaking the silence. They were threatening, warning. Fury. Then there was tearing. Ripping. A fight. A fight like he had just had. And in the background, the strange sounds that made him angry. Calls. But different emotions. Meanings. Ones he did not understand.

But he was beginning to.

A whimper escaped his throat as he backed up uncertainly against the bars of his cage, his dim eyes flickering through the darkness. He felt helpless. Trapped. Like when his arms were behind his back and his legs would not separate. Like when the thing was in his mouth and the darkness was all around him. He was also still in pain. All over his body. Not just his head. Pain. And the anger was still there. So was the confusion. Throbbing.

Hurting.

But something else was there, too. Something different. It was an unpleasant feeling. Bad.

Very bad.

Fear.

Yes. Fear.

That was the night that the Hunter relearned fear.


	3. Know what you're doing

**Chapter Three**

**Know what you're doing**

"Will he recover?"

The doctor finished pulling through the final stitch and swiftly snipped the thin thread, keeping her eyes focused on her work, trying not to notice the fact that the skin she was working on was sickly and gray and lacerated and scarred so many times it looked like it sported a sprawling, winding tattoo.

"From these wounds? Maybe," she said shortly, shrugging. "If the Infection doesn't kill him first. Recovery will take time, though. And a lot of rest and care."

She glanced up and over as she spoke, the narrowed brown eyes behind her square glasses fleetingly meeting calm, piercing blue. The doubt she wanted to voice died in her throat at the sight and she turned back to her work, plucking up several plastic packages of gauze and medical tape and rolls of bandages from the supply boxes flooding the tables around her.

There was a heavy, deep sigh that broke through the still air. "You believe that I am being foolish."

Her nimble fingers placed the gauze carefully against the pale, gray skin, even white teeth biting tentatively at her lower lip in thought. "I…believe you have good intentions, John. You always do. But I'm afraid they might be…blinding you in this case. I'm not saying what you did was wrong—it was disgusting what they were doing to him, and it needed to be stopped—but I do wonder…if choosing to bring him here was the best choice."

Silence fell. The doctor continued placing the gauze, carefully covering it and taping it as best she could what with the limited amount of uninjured skin she had to work with. Luckily, there had been a bathing station in the clinic where they had managed to clean the Hunter's filthy body and wounds before patching him up, or the grime would have provided an entirely different set of problems. The rustling of medical supplies and the ragged breathing of the unusual patient lying on her clinic table were the only sounds to punctuate the contemplative quiet. Which was fine with her. Talking meant she had to think about what she was doing.

She didn't want to think about that quite yet.

They were standing in a back room of the Compound's clinic. A single light hung above them, directly over the stainless steel operating table positioned in the middle. There were tables and cabinets lining the wall, covered in various degrees of chaos that the medical staff just did not have the time to organize or clean.

The doctor was the only one in the building tonight, though. A brief, unusual moment in her shift. Lucky for John, who had come in through the backdoor cradling the damaged form of an Infected in his powerful arms shortly after midnight. Quite a shock for the poor doctor.

Only Mallory Benson was not a _real_ doctor. Not yet, anyway, seeing as she had not graduated from university and was only halfway through her studies, if even that. But her education had been put on indefinite hold, considering the circumstances. Not that anyone really cared about that anymore. There were only two other doctors besides her in the Compound—one was a graduate fresh out of med school, barely a few years older than she was, and the other was a roughened old medical surgeon who used to be retired before the whole zombie apocalypse began. Of course, those two would probably have been enough for the Compound's small population if things had been normal. But things were not normal and the workload for the Compound's medical staff was immense. Survivors were being carted through nearly every other day, most in desperate need of check ups or patch jobs, and the Compound residents came in on all the other days, panicking over coughs or sniffles or fevers that usually turned out to be nothing, so Mallory had been upgraded from the assistant position she had originally volunteered for and now she had about as much experience and knowledge as she needed to keep up with her two associates and on one said anything to make her feel like it wasn't enough.

After all, there was no better teacher than being on the field, as one of her old professors used to say. "Used to" because he was probably so much decaying flesh on the side of the road back in the east coast by now. Just like the rest of the high and mighty university faculty.

"Perhaps you are right," said John heavily, shifting on the tiny stool he sat upon. The suddenness of his deep, rumbling voice caused Mallory's hands to slip slightly, startling her from her thoughts. But she quickly recovered, berating herself for the momentary lapse of attentiveness, despite the fact that it was well into the early hours of the morning and she knew that she was exhausted after another near sleepless night. She continued with her care, concentrating her eyes on her hands so she would not have to look up again into that piercing gaze.

"What are you planning on doing with him now?" she asked quietly after realizing that John had no intention of continuing to speak.

At the question, the large man sighed again, leaning back and staring thoughtfully up at the ceiling. "I will take him home with me. There is a small room off the kitchen that he might like. It has dim lighting and locks from the outside, and is certainly quite a bit larger than the cage they had him living in. I will take care of him there—after all this trouble, it would be a waste not to—and when he is recovered, I will return him to the city."

Mallory finished taping the last stretch of gauze, and then she stood back and had John lift up the Infected's upper body so she could quickly wrap several lengths of bandages around his chest as an added precaution, and while she did so, she mulled over her friend's words. He made it sound so simple. But of course, he always did that. And for him, usually it was.

Still…

"Are you sure that's safe? Putting him in a house like that filled with people? What if he gets out and bites someone? What if he bites _you_? I know you've been bitten by these things before, but you can't keep pressing your luck like this…"

"I will take the necessary precautions," interrupted the man gently, "but I doubt that they will be needed. Trust me, Miss Benson, I do not wish for anyone else to be harmed, especially those residing with me. I would not be making this decision if I thought it would be unsafe for others, especially them."

Mallory sighed and tied off the bandage roll. "Of course, John. I know you wouldn't put anyone in danger on purpose…but this…this is an _Infected_…"

"I know what an Infected is," said John quietly, and glancing up, Mallory saw a brief flash of emptiness in his gaze, the same emptiness that spoke of living through horrors she could never imagine. She suddenly felt foolish chiding him on his choice. Of course he understood what he was doing. He knew. After all he had been through, how could he not? "I understand the risks. But there is something about this one…I believe I may be able to do some good for him."

Mallory stood back, her job complete, to survey her work. Nodding in satisfaction after several moments of studying the stitches and bandages with experienced eyes, she quickly cleaned up the supplies and then pulled off her bloodied gloves, tossing them in the nearby trashcan. She struggled for a moment trying to find words to say before turning and disguising her uncertainty by washing her hands. Behind her, the large man picked up a fresh blanket she had brought out of the supply bin and moved forward, gently maneuvering the much smaller form to get the covering around it.

Silently, the doctor chewed on her lip, trying not to think of how strange this situation was, wondering if she was making the right choice in letting her friend do this, in letting him take care of an _Infected_. And not _only_ was it an Infected, it was one of the most dangerous ones the virus had produced.

If it was her being faced with this decision…if it had been her at the Outpost…

She sighed to herself, shaking her head slowly. No, that was a bad argument. She knew what she would have done if it had been she in his shoes—or rather, what she would _not_ have done. She wouldn't have had the guts to do the same thing as he had.

But she would have liked to.

Still though, bringing an Infected into a quarantined, paranoid Compound filled with survivors, many of whom had learned the hard way to hate and fear the Infected after weeks upon weeks of running and fighting for their lives, trying to make it to the few safe zones left in North America…that was just asking for trouble.

"What if someone finds out?" asked Mallory quietly, turning to face her friend while drying her hands.

The large man merely shrugged and said nothing. It was the type of response that told her she was better off not pressing further. He continued carefully wrapping the prone form in the blanket, and then when the Hunter was sufficiently covered so that it would be near impossible to tell him apart from a normal human, the large man scooped him up into strong arms. Standing there with the size difference so obvious between them, despite the fact that the Hunter was neither larger nor smaller than average, it looked like he was cradling a child.

She stared at them for a long moment, fighting within herself between what she knew to be the rules, and what she knew to be right. Even if it was insanity. Even if it seemed taking care of an already grievously sick creature was a hopeless cause. But then, if anyone could take care of an injured Infected and make it through unscathed with the minimal amount of problems possible, it would be John Logan. As the saying went around camp, if there were ever to be a counteracting force to Murphy's Law, it would be him. And despite her own personal doubts and misgivings, despite not agreeing with him in the slightest, she trusted his judgment.

"I suppose I'll drop by every night until he gets better," she muttered grudgingly, leaning back against the table behind her, arms folded and lips tugged down into a frown. "His bandages are going to need to be checked and changed daily. If he even lets me get that close to him once he wakes up, of course."

"Oh, he might," said John calmly, smiling. "He is not quite like the other Infected, Miss Benson. He may surprise you. And I thank you dearly for your willingness to continue with his care. I will ensure your safety will not be at risk."

Mallory shrugged, despite the fact she was inwardly wondering why in hell she had offered to continue doing something she very much did not want to do. She walked past him casually and went to hold open the back door. Beyond, the faintest hint of dawn was gracing the horizon. "Sure, gives me something to keep my mind off everything else going on around here. And who knows? I might even learn something useful."

The large man smiled slightly as he started for the door. "Yes. That is precisely what I was thinking."

* * *

The Gateway Compound was one of many small settlements erected in the northwest reaches of the North American continent several months after the initial Outbreak, organized by the remnants of the former local governments of the cities affected the least or the last and protected by the severely diminished military and local police forces. It was fairly isolated in a pocket of the mountains where a former farming community had once been, far enough away from the nearest city to avoid being run over by the remaining Infected, but close enough to the nearest Outpost to be a temporary stop for relocated and rescued survivors and those passing through to other Compounds. It was a small cluster of mismatched buildings—indeed, some were not buildings at all but rather old semi-trailers or camping trailers or whatever else could be found to live in—that looked as if the structures had been dropped from the sky there over night, all clustered together according to what they were used for. However, the high, barbed wire topped double fence and sentry posts every few meters that surrounded the small Compound were as new and as structurally sound as anything from the old world had been. And over the past few months while it had been in operation, the place was beginning to look more and more like a stable town as the less than one hundred and fifty residents began to make it their home.

Almost all of them had realized by now that they wouldn't be going anywhere. There just wasn't anywhere else to go.

Many of those who chose to stay as part of the permanent population or were assigned to the Gateway were either medical or military professionals of some sort, researchers still vainly attempting to find a cure for the Infection that had ravaged the greater part of the civilized world, or those with enough experience to stay alive without their former civilization and related luxuries and help others do the same—those particular people ranged everywhere from avid backcountry camping and hunting enthusiasts to former Scout leaders. There were few others who stayed for any other reason. The rest of those who had somehow miraculously survived the Infection long enough to make it to the north or be rescued were usually transferred to the larger, more remote but better developed communities in an attempt to salvage what humanity the world had left once they had successfully passed through one of the quarantine stations.

Then there was John Logan.

John had been relocated to the Compound after being shifted from one evacuation point to the next and taken through more quarantine facilities than he cared to remember. The whole structure of everything was unnerving to him—he had not expected to find much of anything resembling order and government after escaping his former home in the mid west, only to be curiously surprised by the effectiveness at which human life had been established in the far wildernesses. Not that he had had much time to dwell on it. Not that he had wanted to.

By the time he had come to the Gateway, he was sick of traveling. Sick of change. He wanted to stay put as much as he wanted to help, and the Gateway, even as run down and shoddily constructed as it was, presented itself as the best option to do so. He lived at the edge of the fortified Compound farthest away from the single, heavily guarded entrance gate. He had been lucky to have arrived in the outlying survivor community early enough on to procure one of the previously standing structures of the small farming town that had existed before the area had been converted into its present state. It was a modest two-story farmhouse with three bedrooms and what had once been a large front and back yard that was now crammed with camping trailers and tents and whatever else could be hastily salvaged and constructed and used to shelter the steady trickle of survivors that passed through. It was a bit crowded, but few people complained—cramped living quarters was a small price to pay for safety and a peace of mind.

None of the other residents of the small house were awake when John arrived, which was a relief. He would rather tell first and show later to avoid setting off a panic. He had left his truck at the supply depot, as it would have disturbed too many sleeping people if he had driven it into the residential sector so early in the morning. It hadn't been that long of a walk from the medical clinic, but he had had to be extra careful to avoid any of the patrols stationed around the Compound and the odd early morning straggler setting about a day's work. John was not a fool, after all. He knew that not everyone would be as readily to accept his judgment as Mallory Benson had.

She had asked him what he would do if he were found out. In truth, he really wasn't sure. But he would do what he had to do.

He just hoped it would never get to that point.

John flicked on one of the lamps in the kitchen and carried the still form in his arms into the small room off to the side. It was not exactly a bedroom and had in fact been a pantry and supply closet until a week or so earlier when it had been converted into a simple guest room. Just in case it was needed.

And now it was. John carefully pulled back the covers on the bed and set the Hunter onto the thin, firm mattress, covering him as much as possible with the worn but clean blankets before standing back and staring down at the heavily bandaged form with a thoughtful gaze. In the dim castoff light from the kitchen, the Infected looked no different than any other human man. How could the men at the Outpost justify treating him like an animal?

He leaned down, gently picking up one of the Infected's limp clawed hands and examining it. The doctor and he had put in their best efforts to clean the blood out from under the sharpened, lethal claws, but they seemed to be permanently stained. Not to mention still very dangerous. They had accidentally torn through more than one towel and washcloth. In the end, the young doctor had simply procured some cutting instruments—ranging from sheers to clippers—and some heavy-duty files and together they had cut and filed down the claws on the Hunter's hands and feet. John had a feeling the Infected wouldn't be too happy about that, but it was necessary, not only for hygiene, but also for safety, both that of his and those around him.

John had been worried that they had trimmed the claws down too far, as it had been difficult to determine what was fresh blood from new wounds, fresh blood from old wounds, or simply dried blood that had coagulated and coated his filthy skin. However, now that he was able to have a closer look, he could see that they had not caused any terrible harm. A few scrapes or scratches that may or may not have resulted from the trimming, but nothing too serious.

Satisfied, he tugged out several extra rolls of bandages from his coat pocket and began wrapping them firmly around the Hunter's right hand and upper arm, keeping the wrappings loose enough to allow for proper circulation, but tight enough that hopefully the Hunter would be prevented from using his fingers to try to claw or grab dangerously. At least, until he figured out that all he needed to do was bite them off. In that instance, it was also a test—how much intelligence had the Hunter retained?

He had just finished binding the Hunter's other hand when movement in the doorway caught his eye. After living for two months in an Infected-infested city, his peripheral vision had been trained up enough to be able to immediately and almost always accurately assess any movement in any part of his range of vision. As such, he recognized who it was immediately.

Calmly, the large man gathered the unused bandages, tucked the Hunter's arms under the blankets, and stood, his calm gaze turned towards the door with a serene smile.

A girl stood in the doorway. She looked small and young, almost childlike, but John knew that, like his own appearance, it was an unintentionally deceiving perception as she was well into her late teens. She had a head of shaggy blonde hair that gave evidence to the fact that she apparently had just got out of bed, and a pair of brilliant green eyes that shown from the pale, thin face, shadowed with sleepiness that was mostly masked by curiosity. She didn't move or speak when he turned his attention to her, instead choosing to simply stand there with her slim arms leisurely folded across her thin body, her expressionless gaze turned on him.

"I apologize if I awoke you," said John gently.

The girl's thin shoulders rose in a shrug, and he noticed that her gaze flickered alternatingly between him and the form on the bed. "I was listening for you," she explained quietly. Her voice was light but held a dark, serious overtone that hinted to experience and trials well beyond her years. "It doesn't take much to wake me up nowadays."

"Then I shall apologize for keeping you waiting."

She said nothing, letting that particular topic of conversation fall to the side in favor of turning her gaze completely to the being on the bed, letting the unasked question hover on the quiet morning air and in the small, curious frown tugging at her lips.

John watched her closely as he debated on whether or not to immediately provide an answer. However, of all the residents of the small house, she was the one he would prefer finding out first, the one he had honestly expected to be the first to find out. Yet still he was wary of how she would react. "He is an Infected. A Hunter."

There was a brief moment where her eyes widened with surprise, slim mouth opening in shock as she stared at him in disbelief. However, she recovered her composure quickly, her tone of voice and body posture betraying nothing more of what she was feeling at the receiving of the information. Her mouth closed, her expression slackened into its customary lack of definitive emotion, and she politely waited for him to continue explaining.

"I came across a group of men at the Outpost who were forcing captured Infected to fight other Infected for entertainment."

He didn't need to say anymore. He saw the understanding in her eyes. And the acceptance of the decisions that she reasoned he had made to lead them up to this point. She simply nodded, standing aside as he lumbered tiredly out of the room and closed the door tightly behind him. For a long moment, they stood silently in the dim light of the kitchen, staring at the closed door.

"Miss Benson sedated him before she began patching him up," said the large man eventually, breaking the silence. The girl turned to look at him. "He should be waking soon, according to her calculations, unless he simply continues sleeping from exhaustion."

"I'll keep watch," said the girl instantly, her tone of voice so finalized that it was nearly impossible for him to argue. "I should start on my studying. You get some sleep. You've had a long drive. I'll wake you up when he wakes up."

John hesitated, meeting her blank green gaze with his own piercing blue. After several moments of thought, he slowly nodded. "And the others…"

"I'll let you explain."

He continued to regard her silently for several moments, as if weighing his choices. He wanted to speak instructions to her, warnings. Not to open the door unless he was there. Not to mention the Hunter to anyone else unless speaking to him first. But he had a feeling she already knew and understood everything he would have voiced. He could not hope to place the Hunter in better hands. She had learned how to analyze situations, comprehend the conclusions, and adapt to them at a rate that was astonishing.

She hadn't been like that before the Infection.

But people changed when they had to. Even when they didn't want to.

"Thank you," he said graciously, smiling.

Again, the girl nodded in customary silence, watching quietly as the large man turned and lumbered off to bed, her ever-vigilant green gaze edged with a hint of the immense uncertainty and heavy weight of memories haunting both their thoughts.


End file.
